Thinking Makes It So
by Bricolieur
Summary: (There is romance [Destiel], but it's slow) When Sam began hallucinating the devil, Dean and their father pulled him out of Stanford and sent him to the hospital. It's been years and they've all but given up hope, though Dean's still trying to get him to snap out of it. One day, a man is brought in, kicking and screaming, -in a language no one understands- convinced he's an angel.
1. Prologue: The Rambling Man

_**Prologue: **February 10th, 2014_

"It's going to be alright, Dean." Cas cooed soothingly, lightly running his fingers through the tiny strands of hair poking out of Dean's scalp. Dean, curled into the fetal position with his head resting in Castiel's lap, was silent. His eyes were red-rimmed and his fingers were curled securely in one of the creases at the knee of Cas's jeans. He breathed in and out forcefully, trying hard to hold himself together. Dean didn't seem to be listening at all to what the man was saying, but he went on.

"That's what you're supposed to say, isn't it?" He rambled, "Ease the hurting? Sedate the furious? Assure the hysterical?" For seconds, all that was heard was Dean's pained breaths and the shifting of fabric on the floor of the white, sterile little room. The lights were off and Dean's eyes stayed trained on the yellow glow peaking in from the hallway beneath the door.

"But see," a chuckle, an obvious smile in Castiel's voice, "That only works for so long. It is not an... end-all solution. What happens when those that hurt find that you've only hurt them further by negating their pain? What happens when those that rage find that you've only calmed them for your own means; when broken souls stored away in these neat little boxes realize, for once, they aren't just making this shit up – and you really are telling them lies?"

Dean didn't speak, only clung helplessly to Castiel's pant leg. Cas cocked his head slightly as he considered the man nestled on his leg. He ran his fingers through the small fringe at the top of Dean's forehead.

"All that I can say," Cas whispered, closer to Dean's ear now, bending down, working circles into his shoulders and back, "is that you are my friend. I care for you deeply. You have worked your way into my sad, little world and taken up permanent residence." Cas ignored the way his own voice wavered when the first warm droplet hit his thigh. "However twisted, however insane, however irrational... you have become a part of me. I am here. I will always be here. But there is nothing at all here for you to anchor yourself to, so it would make everything a great deal easier if you'd stop trying..." Dean's breathing was still erratic, but it was slowing the more Cas worked at him.

"I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing," Dean bit out eventually, the words mostly muffled. His fingers clenched Cas's jeans until the knuckles turned white. The man's jaw hardened and he gripped a small tuft of hair at the back of Dean's neck and pulled him upward so their eyes met.

"I love you, but you don't know what you're talking about," he said harshly, eyes narrowed and severe. He loosened the moment he'd tightened, though, and placed his hands on both sides of Dean's face. For a moment, there was nothing. But then, an urgency filled the man's eyes and he leaned close, crowding Dean. "Where are you," He enunciated, clear and penetrating. "I know you're in there somewhere, cutting yourself to pieces."

Dean stilled immediately. He gazed, wide-eyed into Castiel's own focused pupils. He ripped his eyes away and pulled Cas's hands away from his face before pushing himself up and towards the door.

"Dean?" Castiel asked, rising himself. Dean wouldn't look at him, but the tension that had fallen over them was very obviously due to the suddenly-very-lucid and unfamiliar glint in Castiel's gaze.


	2. Sam

_January 2012_

His favorite color is white. Not like his skin or puffy, pillow-esque clouds carrying condensation; more the crayon blending other colors together on paper, adding layer to layer over deeper extremities. Every day he does this: tears a tiny piece out of his college-ruled notebook, smears tape over one edge, and adds it to the collection on the wall of his dorm. He covers it from top to bottom in tiny, fine red print. The color is symbolic for the friend (keeper, conscience, tormentor, whatever) in his head. He supposes this makes him crazy, but lots of people think they're crazy - and oftentimes, they're perfectly sane. Only... sometimes the voice is all that makes sense in a world of bigotry and arrogance and hate. Sometimes the voice cuts cleanly through the bullshit and the threads of reality, and sometimes he forgets himself _and he talks back. _

Listen, this is what makes Sam Winchester crazy: not the voice, only the habit he has of considering it. What his fellow kinsmen and peers fail to consider - and what he himself never fails to - is that most humans possess mental voices that whisper to them unspoken truths. They aren't very loud, not usually: most of them fall quiet and bitter over time as humans grow into their social normalities and expectations. But they never really leave, they're always there, biting their nails in boredom, maybe slowly losing their grips on their own 'sanity,' and it mustn't be too healthy to negate them like that. That's got to cause problems. Really, they ones that talk back to their voices must be the more humane bunch. That's what Sam figures, anyway.


End file.
